[Respawning.. ]

  [System] All equipped gear damaged.

  FUCK! He was back in the antechamber. The pain of his wounds, gone. Everything else that had just transpired, fresh on the membrane. That was horrible. He took a deep breath to steady himself, opening his eyes calmly. His gaze meet the colossal Boss Door dead on. It just stood there, silently observing his fall from grace. Okay. This game is not an off-rail dream. Check.

  [System] Loan Quest Failed. Rolling Tier 5 (Legendary) curse.. Hardcore: you have but one life.

  Failed? But I plucked that flower! And hardcore. One life. That’s not a curse. That’s a whole other game mode. He read the message again. And again. As if expecting the words to shift and betray some hidden clause offering a way out. They did not.. and there would be no last-minute forum-deep-dive digging up obscure loopholes. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, an unconscious habit built from thousands of hours spent gripping controllers, dodging death by pixels. Alright, alright, alright.. the packsack!

  It materialized in his hands. The marrowbloom, just hand it over, right? He had risked everything for it, climbed a freaking tower of death. That had to count in whatever grand scheme was going on here. A creeping tightness curled around his ribs as he loosened the straps, peeling it open with methodical intent - Its.. gone? His fingers dug into the seams, running along the fabric’s edge. 'Upside down, inside out, shaking, padding.' There might be some forgotten pocket his mind had glitched out and failed to register. Nothing. No soft glow of eerie petals. No brittle stem wrapped in his grip. Flower was gone, now an empty space in his inventory. 'Relentless tapping.'

  .. Inventory Slot Empty.

  .. Inventory Slot Empty.

  .. Inventory Slot Empty.

  The system had no need for further explanation: this was a message delivered with intent. It wasn’t about him failing a quest. It was about control. The system had taken, and it had done so absolutely. His fingers buzzed with the restless energy of a spring wound too tight. The need for movement, for action, for something tangible burned beneath his skin. Not out of rage, that would require hope, the belief that things could be different. This was something colder, sharper. He wanted to hit something: force reality to acknowledge him. Remind himself he was real, that he mattered even in this place. And then..

  .. you.

  That quiet, infuriating patience that had always been at odds with his urgency. Yeah, I know. Fucking up doesn’t have to be a problem. Choose to learn from it. He had always hated that advice. It wasn't bad.. just damned hard to do in the real world. Here, though? Time to adapt. If the system thought it had broken him. That he’d kneel and submit. Then he was going to teach it what hardcore truly meant.

  A faint, wet squelch sounded behind him. Bob didn’t turn around immediately. He didn’t have to. He knew that noise by now.

  [Echuu] Back so soon? And with a shiny new curse! Love the commitment.

  “The flower’s gone.” Bob said, eyes still fixed at Boss Door. “I had it.”

  [Echuu] You sure did! Right up until you died.

  Bob scrubbed a hand down his face and faced the slime. “Let me guess. I can only bring stuff back if I win.” It was less of a question, more of a statement made in realization.

  [Echuu] Ding, ding, ding! Bob gets it. See, you don’t actually own something until you leave victorious. You plop down a tombstone? Well, that’s just the universe calling a mulligan on your recent loot.

  Bob’s teeth ground together. “Of cause. And the curse?”

  [Echuu] What about it? You lost the quest, Bob. You gambled. You lost.

  Bob’s fingers twitched. “Yeah, I got that much. But how do I break it?” Echuu wobbled in the air, its tiny tendrils wriggling in thought before another text box popped up.

  [Echuu] That’s the fun part! I don’t know. First time seeing someone get hit with that particular little nightmare. It’s kinda exciting! You’re a trailblazer, Bob! A pioneer of pain and suffering.

  Bob’s knuckles cracked. “Fantastic. Glad to make an impact here.”

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  [Echuu] Look, curses are not worse than any other problem. You either break them, outplay them, or learn to live with them. But hey, silver lining: you don’t have to worry about the next time you drop your loot. System's gonna drop you too!

  Bob said nothing and silence stretched. Echuu wobbled a little slower. One life. One shot. Now, this is PEAK GAMING!

  He took inventory of himself. The weight was wrong. The balance was off. His buckler’s strap felt loose, his dagger looked duller, crowbar slightly bent. Even his boots had developed a tear along the sole. Echuu, ever punctual in Bob’s moments of suffering, wobbled into view.

  [Echuu] Oh look! You’re leaning into the economy of consequences.

  Bob gave the slime a flat look. “My knife’s about as sharp as a sponge.”

  [Echuu] Which is slightly sharper than your survival instincts, judging by recent events.

  “Explain, Echuu.” he said and the slime wiggled in something Bob by now recognized as smug delight.

  [Echuu] Your gear doesn’t enjoy dying. In fact, it hates it so much that every time you take an unscheduled dirt nap, it throws a tantrum and breaks a bit. Eventually it stops being gear and starts being landfill. You do keep half the coin in your sack though! You should really bank that, you know.

  Bob tracked his inventory. The little pricker was right. Gear battered and purse down to 30c. “Great. So, death taxes are a thing here. And durability.” Then the slime wobbled once before delivering the killing blow.

  [Echuu] Oh, Bob, it’s worse than simple taxes. You can’t file for an extension.

  Bob ignored the comment, striding towards Iron Jaw’s stall. The gear merchant was already watching. His single good eye tracked Bob’s approach with measured weight. He had seen plenty of men crawl back from failure, but this case was special.

  “Back already.” Iron Jaw rasped, voice the sound of gravel grinding against steel. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

  Bob placed the battered knife and buckler on the counter. “Yeah, well. Turns out skeletons don’t appreciate being stabbed with a spoon.”

  Iron Jaw glanced at the worn-out gear and sighed. “That knife’s a joke. Buckler barely holding. Damaged goods, at best.”

  Bob tapped a finger on the counter. “What’s it worth now? In coin.”

  Iron Jaw let out a faint hint of amusement before it died in the open air. He picked up the knife, turned it over once, then dropped it with a clatter. The buckler got the same treatment, ending with a decisive grunt. “Half price. Rounded down.”

  Bob glanced at his inventory. The knife had been 30c. The buckler, another 30c. The rounding down was irrelevant here, but half price stung.

  “Okay, deal.” Bob stacked all his coins in a pile, 90c total, and leaned over the counter. “I need something better suited for skeletons. And, if I have to fight in that mess again, I want countermeasures.”

  Iron Jaw just grunted and started pulling items from beneath the stall. Bob scanned his options. No weapons worth the price. A common two-handed hammer for 80c. Too steep. No worthwhile armor he could afford either. But then.. A flicker of recognition from his old pen-and-paper days. Round glass-flasks filled with swirling orange liquid that glowed faintly even in the dimness of the antechamber, 15c each. Alchemist’s Fire! A bottle of pure, violent potential. Not just a weapon, an equalizer. Then, another great addition to his brewing schemes: skins of lantern oil. Far less aggressive, but highly flammable, 5c each. The arena, it was a dust-bin. This might be good!

  He tapped the counter. “Three vials of Alchemist’s Fire. Six skins of lantern oil. One torch.”

  Iron Jaw’s gaze flicked up, lingering for a second longer than usual. “Planning something, lad?”

  Bob shrugged. “Just trying not to waste my last shot.”

  The merchant gave a slow nod, then gathered the items. He laid them out with methodical precision, experience laden in his movements. No unnecessary flourishes, no wasted gestures. Bob counted out the coin, total shrinking with every purchase until it sat at a depressingly low 10c. He paused for a second, then handed them to the merchant. “Here, a tip.”

  [System] Reputation gain (Minor): Gear merchant. Current Tier: Somewhat Indifferent.

  Iron Jaw looked at the coin resting in his grotesquely large palm. His fingers curled around the metal, calloused ridges of his hand making the sum seem even smaller than it was. “Hope this plan works out.” His voice was quiet, something heavy beneath it. “The Slime’s taken a liking to you.”

  “I'll manage.” Without another word, Bob turned away. Echuu bounced alongside him.

  Boss Door loomed ahead, dark and massive, a slab of inevitability wedged into reality itself. This time there would be no retries or quick-saves. 'Flicker.'

  [Echuu] Hey Bob.

  Bob slowed, surprised at the two-word sentence. “Short of words now? That isn't ominous at all?”

  [Echuu] Pfft, please. Like you don't live and breath ominous.

  Bob raised a brow, waiting. Echuu wasn’t cracking a joke this time. A plea was coming, hesitant but on the horizon.

  [Echuu] There were others, y’know. Before you. During their endeavors some of my kind got lost in the arena. Other slimes. Family. Now stuck behind Boss Door.

  Bob did not say anything despite his mind bursting with questions. This felt meaningful to the boogey.

  [Echuu] I’m not saying you should go out of your way or anything. Actually, scratch that. It is exactly what I’m saying. You’re Bob! If anyone’s going to find them, it’s you.

  Bob stepped up his pace towards Boss Door. This was already going to be brutal. Adding side objective? Didn't turn out well last time. Even so:

  “Don't worry. I’ll find them.”

  Echuu pulsed softly, no quips. Then Bob let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. First attempt had him rushing in blind, hoping player-skill alone would be his carry. This time, the approach was different. This time, the battlefield would burn.

  ‘Tier 5, please’